


#10 Coral Lane

by DixieDale



Series: The U.N.C.L.E. Agent's Cautionary Guide To Travel [4]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-27 21:27:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17774489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: The Guide was rather sparse in the description.  Well, the usual entries just didn't apply.  No Food, no Lodging, no Snitches, no Supplies.  Not much reason to go looking for it.Unless you were fleeing for your life, desperate for any slim chance of refuge.  Unless you were Illya Kuryakin, carrying information that could NOT fall into the hands of the enemy, wounded, exhausted, with men who may or may not be from Thrush right behind him but who obviously had no kindly thoughts towards him, as evidenced by the bullet wound in his shoulder.





	#10 Coral Lane

Garment District, Manhattan, New York City, New York, USA  
#10 Coral Lane - vacant lot

Ω Supernatural Presence - Possibly Inclined To Be Helpful  
¶ Here Be Dragons

 

Garment District, Manhattan, New York City, New York  
In an area of old warehouses and small manufacturing shops and various and sundry things you would find in an area that had long since lost any semblance of the countryside, there was a vacant lot. Oh, not a big one, not by any means. Perhaps that was why no one had built on it, even while the surrounding area had been covered by whatever grim structures crouched there. 

Some had tried; the land had been sold or appropriated many a time over the years. Still, no matter the talk, no matter the plans, nothing was ever done with it, and so it crouched there, a small, narrow rectangle, dark and gloomy from the buildings overhanging it on three sides, the dried earth sprouting weeds here and there. Even the convenience of such a place for the dumping of litter never seemed to carry through - no abandoned tires or rusty fenders or various other detritus of modern life marred its grim surface. There were no cigarette butts, since no one came there to enjoy a smoke, no liquor bottles either. For some reason, the place just wasn't tempting, in fact, tended to make passersby so nervous they speeded their pace as they made their way across the narrow entrance. 

But no matter its lack of obvious charms, for those who ended up in the rabbit warren that was the Garment District in Manhattan and really NEEDED to find it, it was worth searching for. As Illya Kuryakin was searching for it now.

He'd somehow gone unnoticed, or at least unacknowledged, when he left Penn Station in such a hurry. New Yorkers minded their own business, for the most part, and interferring with four men in obvious pursuit of one raggedy looking man in stained clothes didn't seem to be on anyone's agenda that time of the morning. Yes, it was morning, if only barely.

It had been only half-past Midnight when he'd arrived to make that exchange with Louie, the panhandler who hung around the Port Authority Building. Louie had worked that area even longer than he'd worked for UNCLE; he was good at both of his jobs, but tonight someone had ended his dual careers.

Illya had leaned down to catch the last words from the dying man. Now he placed one hand on the old man's shoulder - a farewell to someone who might not have been a friend, as such, but who had gone out of his way to teach a newcomer, a young Illya Kuryakin all he knew about this odd part of the city. 

And, to tell the truth, there hadn't been much Louie HADN'T known about the Garment District. He'd worked there from a boy on, til an accident had crushed one hand and cost him an eye, along with providing sufficient facial scaring as to make most people turn away. New employment hadn't been forthcoming, and having picked up the odd habit of eating now and again, panhandling was his next step. 

An accidental encounter with a young, rather hapless UNCLE trainee named Joey Terrace had brought him to the attention of Alexander Waverly, had led to his second career as a combination informant/drop point/messenger, one that let him eat on a regular basis and actually rent a small room in the basement of one of the factories. It wasn't paradise, but he'd never had expectations of paradise, so he was content. Or he HAD been content. Now he was just dead.

They'd been waiting for him, waiting for him to arrive, to find the body. To take what he carried. He was opening his communicator to report in when the voice came out of the darkness to his right.

"Mr. Moon wants to have a little conversation with you. Seems you've been asking the wrong questions in the wrong places; maybe picked up a little something that didn't belong to you. Don't kick up a fuss, just come along." 

They were encircling him, their guns trained on him, and he slowly raised his hands. There might be a time, an opportunity, for escape, but it wouldn't be here and now, especially after they hit him with a tazer dart. He could barely register them pulling him to his feet, bustling him along held between two of them.

"Shit! Damned kids!" One thing these guys hadn't counted on was the enterprising youth of the neighborhood; their car was now missing all four wheels, and probably a few other parts, though whether those were as vital to allowing the car to be used for transporting their prisoner, Illya didn't know and wasn't going to waste time contemplating.

He'd lurched away from them while they'd been distracted, taking off into the shadows. They were too close behind him for him to outrun them, not in his condition. A fast dodge into Penn Station had been worth a try, trying to make them think he'd escaped on a train. Well, he might have done that, if there had been a train in the offing, but that didn't appear to be the case. Cursing to himself he dodged out again, trying to get his bearings. The men were far too close behind him now as he leaned against an alley wall, trying to catch his breath. His communicator had fallen victim to that same shot that had entered his shoulder, so there was no help coming from that direction.

Looking around he caught sight of a landmark, something he recognized from one of Louie's stories. Frankly, it had been one of those he'd taken with a giant grain of salt. Louie was, had been, a reliable source of information, but he had what Illya thought was an overabundance of weird stories about that square mile known as the Garment District. Sometimes he thought it was like listening to his grandmother tell fairy tales, and he was just a little too old to be putting faith in fairy tales.

But that was then, this was now, and he was losing far too much blood. Now, he could feel his strength coming to an end, knowing that shot had done far more damage than he'd realized at the time. If nothing else, he could perhaps buy time to destroy the information he was carrying; far better for it to be destroyed than to fall back into the wrong hands.

One old building after another, then another turn, then another, and there it was. A vacant strip of land in an area where every other inch had been put to some purpose. Leaning against the wall of the building immediately adjacent, he peered into the deep blackness, seeing nothing. He heard their pounding footsteps behind him, probably not more than twenty or thirty yards away, and he lurched into the shadows. Into the shadows, making his way as quickly as he could to the rear of the lot, through a worn stone arch with a small sign - #10 Coral Lane. His strength gave out and he sank to the ground as his consciousness fled.

 

#10 Coral Lane:  
Thrush Operatives' POV:

Damn! They had him, then he'd slipped away! Well, Joe had gotten off a good shot, and from the trail of blood Kuryakin had been hit hard. It wouldn't take long before they had him AND that information he was carrying. Then, back to the local Thrush office and they'd get the credit for capturing one of Waverly's top men.

He couldn't be far ahead, and had been staggering when they'd seen him right before he'd turned that last corner. 

"There! He headed in there! We've got him now; he'll be trapped in there" Joe gasped, and they took another deep breath and plunged into the vacant lot, stumbling over dried weeds and the uneven ground. 

They searched and searched, but no UNCLE agent was to be found. Joe had taken the north side, Lee the south, and Duke roamed the rear. Nothing, til Duke found that small arched opening with the small sign he could just make out with his penlight - #10 Coral Lane - and he let out a low whistle to summon his companions to him. 

Passing through the arch, they found only an old wooden bench, with an old woman sitting there, huddled in a dark coat and scarf, trying to stay warm. Lee grabbed her and shook her.

"Where is he?? Where did he go??! You had to have seen him, damn your eyes!"

Her repeated mumblings of having seen nothing, to leave her alone, didn't move them, and Duke lost patience and drew back his hand and hit her, as hard as he could. It was a little like hitting a brick wall, it would seem, from the agonized yell he gave. 

The old woman drew the scarf away from her face, and they looked into the face of their worst nightmares, and they shrieked and turned to run. The ground opened in front of them, swallowing them and their screams and closed again silently. 

She cocked her head as if listening, then smiled a satisfied smile, and faded away into the shadows of #10 Coral Lane.

#10 Coral Lane:  
Illya Kuryakin's POV:  
It was daylight, and the sun was shining, and the air smelled fresh and clean and sweet. He raised his head from the padded garden bench where he lay, to meet the gentle brown eyes of a young woman. There was a certain serenity to her face; she wasn't smiling at him, but she wasn't frowning either. 

Sitting up, looking around anxiously, he could see no signs of the Thrush agents. Even more puzzling, he could see no signs of the buildings that should have closed on three sides of #10 Coral Lane. His confusion was obvious, and the young woman assured him, "oh, they'll not find you here. In fact, they're already gone. I wasn't sure about you, not until they showed up. You are no Innocent, but you were bent on escape, not on doing harm. And you used Louie's name. Is it true? Is he dead? I thought I felt the wind tell me so, but I did so hate to believe it."

Illya swallowed hard, "yes, he's dead. The men who were chasing me killed him for helping me, us."

"Well then, it's good they are gone then. Louie was a good man, a friend of sorts. He would visit sometimes, but could never stay long." Her face grew sad. "No one can ever stay long, and it does sometimes get lonely. Louie brought me books when he would find them thrown away, and we would read them together, and after he left, I would read them to myself."

Putting one hand to his wounded shoulder, he was shocked at how little pain there was, and pulling his torn shirt aside he could see the wound was as if it were several days old. 

"Aye, I did a wee bit of healing on your hurts. Are you well enough to stand? There is food inside." 

And he stood carefully, and turning, came to a dead stop. A small cottage, complete with windowboxes abloom with bright flowers and green vines. To one side a flourishing kitchen garden, to the other an amazing welter of flowers and herbs well mixed together. A small number plate aside the Dutch door read #10 Coral Lane.

Slowly he made his way inside, to sit at the wooden kitchen table, to be served tea and warm bread and eggs and porridge with heavy cream and honey. He'd eaten his fill before he asked, "do you have a telephone I can use?" 

He wasn't very surprised to see her wide shocked eyes. "A. . . . Well, certainly not. I can imagine no need I might have of such a thing, and I misdoubt one would work here anyway. You are needing to send a message?"

"Yes, I need to let my friends know where I am, arrange for transport." He quickly checked his pocket, relieved to know that small envelope was still there.

"Well, mayhap I can see to that. Describe one of your friends, one who knows you best, one most likely to come to your aid."

His world became even more tilted on end when she brought out a silver bowl and filled it halfway with water, sprinkling herbs over the surface.

Slightly impatiently now she urged him, "we haven't all the time in the world, you know. Go ahead, name your friend, describe as best you can, and DO give me as many details as possible."

"I don't even know your name," he said, though the roll of her eyes told him she thought he was once again wasting time.

"Giselle I am called, at least sometimes. Now, your friend?"

Somehow he found himself describing Napoleon Solo to this very odd, very demanding young woman. Name, physical description finished, she was still looking at him expectantly. 

"Come now, that is the bare surface. TELL me!"

And he did, talking of Napoleon's attractiveness to woman, his success with them. He told of his friend's loyalty and steadfastness. He talked and talked some more.

"And? You have told all things in his favor. There is more. Tell me, for a man such as you describe does not exist in this world. TELL ME!"

And now, as if the words were being wrenched from him, he told of the disappointments when Napoleon had let his amorous inclinations lead him away from watching Illya's back. About missed dinners, about his unexplained absences in the pursuit of a lovely. About Angelique, and Napoleon's ridiculous involvement with an enemy agent, one who had seemingly tried to kill him on various occasions.

Giselle's voice was softer then, "and? The rest."

And Illya found himself revealing what he'd taken such care to reveal to no one, his caring for the man who was his partner but who would never be more, never all Illya needed him to be.

A gentle hand on his shoulder brought him to himself, and he flushed, wondering just how she had managed to get him to tell her so much. Thrush had tortured him for hours and never had he revealed so much about his partner, about himself.

"Now, lean back and rest. I'll see if I can't just get a proper message through to this Napoleon, your friend."

He watched her poking and prodding at the herb-topped water in that bowl, blinked in confusion as a picture gradually appeared. Finally she sat back as well, motioned him to look.

"And is that him?" A clearer picture couldn't have existed if Napoleon himself had been standing in front of him, and he could only nod in wonder. 

"Well, then. I misdoubt it will take long before he comes to collect you. You'd best rest before I lead you back. And, my young friend, do not be too sure of what the future holds. Try not to hide your heart so completely, at least, not from him. Something tells me he might have something to say in return."

It was peaceful there, in the warm kitchen, bright sunshine giving hints of the lush growth outside, and he dozed on the patchwork quilt laid over the daybed in a small alcove. He roused when she laid her hand on his shoulder.

"Come, it's time to go and meet your Napoleon. It seems he had been most anxious about your safety."

Through the door, through the garden, and at the end of the path he turned to her.

"I never said thank you. If there is anything I can do to repay you, you will let me know?"

For the first time he saw an elfin grin come to her face. 

"Well, if you chance to come by again sometimes, for tea and conversation, I'd not take that amiss. It will be lonelier here without Louie, and I'd like the company at times. Just remember what I said; do not hide your heart so completely from your friend. He will not take it wrong, or take it for granted, or treat it ill, or so I believe."

He hesitated, "may I tell others about you?" 

She laughed, a sweet tinkling laugh. "Tell if you wish, though few will believe. I am found only when I wish to be found, though. Still, if there are those of good will who are in need, as you were, sometimes I am inclined to dabble my fingers in their fortune. Farewell, Illya."

And she was gone, the cottage, the gardens, all else were gone, and he was standing in a vacant lot, surrounded by factories and warehouses.

"There you are, Illya! You look a mess! What the heck happened?" 

And he raised his eyes to see the concerned face of his partner, his friend, and he sighed.

"I think I am going to need a great deal of vodka to tell the story, Napoleon. Would you care to join me in my apartment after I make my report and turn over the information to Mr. Waverly? We can order in, perhaps, and I will tell you a story of an old man who showed kindness to a young stranger, and of a young woman who took kindness on a no longer quite so young a man."

"You're talking in riddles, you know. But I think dinner is a good idea; it seems we don't do that enough with everything else going on. Come on, let's get you cleaned up and debriefed and back home. Chinese work for you, or do you prefer Italian? I know some great places that deliver. And we can stop for some decent vodka on the way."

"Yes, and you may help me determine what is to be said for a new entry into the Guide. It will be brief, but I believe it truly belongs there."


End file.
